


Morpheus and the Sky

by shaggydogstail



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Breaking Up & Making Up, M/M, Magic, Prophetic Dreams, Reconciliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:55:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21900019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shaggydogstail/pseuds/shaggydogstail
Summary: Remus is stranded on a tiny Orkney island with strange magic, prophetic dreams, and his impossible ex-boyfriend.
Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 13
Kudos: 119





	Morpheus and the Sky

**Author's Note:**

  * For [montparnasse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/montparnasse/gifts).



> Big cheers to BS.Ed, LuminousGloom, and shessocold for invaluable support and beta help. Much love to the SG mods for my favourite fest.
> 
> For Small Gifts 2019

Outside is overwashed white, a bleak cocoon of cloud and sleet. It smothers the fields of thistles, the rocky storm beaches, the sea with it’s ferocious tides, and the crumbling ruins of Eynhallow Kirk. The arctic terns, guillemots, and puffins have all gone home to roost, and there’s no sign of the sun in the sky.

There’s no visible trace of the lights - the Aurora Borealis, Northern Lights, the Merry Dancers - but Remus can feel them all the same. Their magic twists and swirls around him, pricking his skin like static electricity. The tiny island of Eynhallow is all but inaccessible to Muggles anyway, moreso during the treacherous storms, but it’s the chaotic power of the magical tempest that has Remus stranded in the isolated two-up, two-down bothy.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asks, patting the head of the great black dog absently. It’s a miracle Sirius even found him, and now they’re both trapped. Once it would’ve been a treat, and even now Remus knows he should be pleased to see him. Sirius has remained dog-shaped since his arrival, which might be because he’s sulking about something or other, or because he’s recovering from the effects of flinging himself through a magical storm. Remus chooses to believe it’s the latter, allowing himself an excuse to be kind to Sirius. He dries his fur with a towel, lights a fire in the grate, and feeds him the last tin of corned beef.

His exhaustion and frustration have rendered him ill-tempered and ill-at-ease, unable to settle. He could do with a good night’s sleep, and conditions in the bothy - magically-protected, the only intact building on the island - are warm and comfortable enough. But sleep means dreams, and Remus’ dreams in this place are far too revealing.

Still, there’s something comforting about being warm while the storm rages outside, the crackle of the fire and the soft whuffling of Sirius’ doggy snores. Soon Remus nods off, feet on the coffee table and face scrunched into the faded antimacassar.

He dreams of Sirius. Again, inevitable. Sirius is never far from his dreams.

Remus twitches and shifts in his sleep. In his dream Sirius is kissing him, they’re tumbling through a doorway and stumbling, clutching, grabbing. Sirius pushes Remus up against the wall, smothering him with hot, eager kisses. Remus’ hands are on Sirius’ arse, his hips, under his shirt and over the taut contours of his chest. He can’t touch Sirius enough. Eventually, Sirius pulls back. They’re both breathing heavily, Remus can feel the rapid rise and fall of Sirius’ chest against his own.

Sirius licks his lips, slowly, deliberately, and drops to his knees.

Remus gasps - in his dream and in the armchair.

‘You alright there, Moony?’

Startled, Remus blinks into wakefulness. Sirius is standing over him, looking all too alike and also not at all like his dream Sirius.

‘Bad dream?’ Sirius smirks. ‘Or maybe a good one?’

‘Fuck off.’

Remus stands up, grimacing as he drapes his embarrassment with annoyance. His mind’s still foggy, in that strange, subaqueous space between dreaming and wakefulness. Between the lustful joy of Sirius in his dreams, and the mocking reality of the man standing over him.

‘Thanks for coming to my rescue, Padfoot, I really appreciate you risking life and limb like this,’ says Sirius, with far too much exaggerated sarcasm for Remus to take him seriously. ‘Really, though, are you OK?’

‘I’m fine,’ Remus mutters tersely. There’s a bag on the table which Sirius must have brought with him. Inside Remus finds tinned sardines and peaches, bread and cheese, and several bottles of wine. Well, good, they’ll be needing a drink because things aren’t awkward enough already. ‘What are you doing here anyway?’

Sirius huffs. ‘I came here just to annoy you, of course. My sole purpose in life.’

‘How’s Florean?’

‘He’s fine.’

‘Does he know you’re here?’

‘Of course.’ Sirius scowls. ‘What is your problem?’

‘No problem,’ says Remus mildly. ‘Not everyone would be so understanding about their partner chasing off after an old flame on a deserted island, that’s all. It’s nice for you that Florean is able to be so mature about things.’

Sirius pulls a face that tells Remus everything about what he thinks of “maturity” and Remus pretends not to notice. ‘I find not lying on a daily basis helps,’ says Sirius. ‘It’s like magic, the way a bit of honesty prevents jealousy.’

‘I’m very pleased for you. Jealousy is a very damaging emotion.’

‘Any emotions you _don’t_ consider damaging, Mr I’m-Too-Rational-And-Mature-For-Feelings, hm?’ Sirius is angry now, on the defensive. _Good_. He’s always been so temptingly easy to wind up.

‘You’re being ridiculous,’ says Remus. ‘I was only making polite conversation. There’s no need to be confrontational.’

‘You were having a go and you know it,’ says Sirius. ‘Why else would you keep going on about my boyfriend?’

Remus swallows heavily, absorbing the blow of Sirius calling someone else his “boyfriend”. He knows very well that he’s the one who asked for this, and he’s no intention of giving Sirius the opportunity to remind him. 

‘I’d ask James how Lily was doing when I saw him, or Dorcas about Marlene,’ said Remus. ‘It’s a normal thing that friends do.’

‘Of course. _Friends_. How silly of me to forget.’

His accent gets much posher when he’s annoyed, a habit so familiar that Remus almost smiles. ‘You’re my friend,’ he says softly. And then, because he can’t resist a final dig, ‘You’re my best friend.’

Sirius sighs and snatches the bag of supplies off the able. ‘I’ll make some tea.’

The kitchen isn’t really far enough to count as storming off, but Sirius goes with the least grace possible. It feels like a stab of victory.

#

‘Are they really that bad, the dreams? You look like shit, by the way,’ Sirius says. He’s sitting cross legged on the floor, occasionally tipping his head back to drop sardines into his mouth, like feeding a hungry chick. Remus tries not to look at him directly.

‘It’s seeing the future. A future. Not always something to look forward to,’ says Remus. He supposes James must’ve told Sirius about the prophetic dreams he gets during aurora storms, because Remus sure as hell wouldn’t.

Sirius gobbles down the last sardine and licks his fingers. ‘I’d have thought you’d like the chance to prepare yourself.’

‘Maybe,’ says Remus. He can see the advantages, practically speaking. But then, he always knows when the full moon’s coming, doesn’t do him much good, does it? ‘But it’s like that saying, “a little knowledge is a dangerous thing”. Divination is vague enough but dreams aren’t like prophecies or anything. They only give you a glimpse of a possible future, but you can’t know whether that’s the future you’ll actually experience or how to avoid it if it’s bad. If you can’t really use the information it’s more trouble than it’s worth.’

‘Are they all bad?’

Remus shakes his head. His earlier dream about Sirius, of course, must have just been a regular sex dream and isn’t relevant.

Sirius pushes the sardine tin and his lukewarm mug of tea aside and leans toward, crawling across the floor towards Remus. ‘You ever dream about me?’

‘Yes.’ Remus has dreamt of Sirius far too often. ‘I dreamt that you went to Azkaban.’

‘Fuck.’ Sirius sits upright, attention fully engaged. Remus already wishes he hadn’t spoken, plunged back in the memory of Sirius, screaming and hysterical, being taken by the Dementors. ‘When? Why?’

Remus brushes biscuit crumbs off the sofa, playing for time. ‘During the war. I didn’t know when or why it might happen, or… how to stop it. Anyway, it didn’t happen so that’s that. I shouldn’t have said anything, it doesn’t matter.’

Sirius kneels in front of him, hands planted on the sofa, one each side of Remus’ knees. ‘Of course it matters,’ he says. ‘It’s upsetting you.’

He can’t really move without knocking Sirius away, so Remus settles for a sort of awkward shrug. 

‘Is that why you thought I was the spy?’

That’s reason enough to move away. Remus pushes the sofa back as he stands, knocking Sirius’ arm aside to walk away. ‘Not this again,’ he says, facing away from Sirius. Outside the window the snowfall has subsided, and there are glimpses of light in the sky. ‘We agreed to move on.’

‘Uh-uh, you agreed,’ contradicts Sirius. He’s getting to his feet, moving to stand behind Remus. 

‘Forgive and forget,’ says Remus, staring steadfastly out of the window. The recital - it must be his hundredth - sounds hollow and mechanical, but what else is there left to say? ‘We have to move forward.’

‘See, that’s the thing, I don’t think for a minute that you’ve forgiven me,’ says Sirius. ‘You’re just nurturing the injury, adding yet another entry to your ledger of slights, real and imagined.’

Remus drops his head. ‘You’re wrong.’

‘Or is it yourself you can’t forgive?’ asks Sirius. ‘Why be happy when you could be a martyr, isn’t that the Lupin motto?’

‘Spare me the cod psychology,’ says Remus. ‘Believe it or not, not wanting to do exactly what you say when you say it doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with someone.’

‘I don’t believe you because I know you’re lying.’

‘Yes, you’ve made it very clear that you don’t trust me,’ says Remus. 

‘You didn’t trust me either!’ Sirius’ resentment is as loud as it ever was. ‘Fuck’s sake, Moony, the entire war was a shit show and everyone screwed up something. We both made the same mistake, _you’re_ the one who can’t get over it.’

Remus spins around, angry enough to face Sirius. ‘I’m not the one who keeps raking up old arguments,’ he says. ‘I want to move on for the sake of our friendship. Maybe us being friends doesn’t mean that much to you, since you keep sulking about how it’s not good enough because I won’t fuck you anymore.’

‘I am not sulking over the loss of your dick,’ says Sirius. ‘I fucking love you, you pompous twat.’

‘So you keep saying,’ says Remus. ‘But you don’t respect me or my decisions. It’s all fine and well for you to stomp your feet and complain about how I’ve broken your heart, but we both know I’m not that important to you.’

Sirius laughs mirthlessly. ‘Oh, change the record. I’m not wrong for refusing to wallow in self-pity.’

‘No, but you have moved on, so you can spare me the theatrics,’ says Remus. ‘You have other friends. You’ve got a new boyfriend. You’re fine.’

‘Are you fine?’ demands Sirius. He’s staring down at Remus, up close and in his space. ‘Since you’re so mature and emotionally well adjusted. Yeah, you’re right: I’m better friends with James and Lily than with you. I am fucking someone else. Tell me honestly, now, how does that make you _feel_?’

Remus blinks up at him. He’s trembling. ‘Tired,’ he says. ‘You make me feel tired.’

He walks away slowly, up the creaking wooden stairs, and ignores the sound of Sirius hurling his mug into the fire.

#

It’s long past time Remus learnt to stop screwing himself over to spite over people, but he’s too pissed off for good sense. The bed in the bothy’s tiny upstairs room is dusty and cool to touch, but he wraps himself in the old quilt and curls up to sleep anyway.

He dreams of a bed, a different bed with soft white sheets and Sirius’ lying naked beneath him. Hours of sleep bring him visions of Sirius’ cock, hot and hard, in his mouth, his hand, his arse. Of kissing Sirius softly, and fucking him until he screams. Fast and slow, frantic and tender, over and over.

Remus wakes before dawn, in a tangle of damp sheets. Light spills across the room, vivid and dancing. He spits in his palm and wraps his hand around his cock before he so much as opens his eyes, and relieves himself with a few hasty tugs. Deed done and Cleaning Charms cast, he lies back to catch his breath. The rapid waltz of the borealis won’t let him pretend that was just a regular sex dream.

His future - or a version of it, at any rate - involves a lot of sex with Sirius. At some point he’s really going to have to decide how he feels about that.

#

‘I was bored,’ says Sirius by way of explanation. He has the entirety of Remus’ field notes spread out across the coffee table, and has clearly added a few comments of his own in the margins. ‘Dumbledore still trying to track down Horcruxes?’

Remus nods, and sits down on the sofa beside Sirius. The war might be all over bar the shouting, but Dumbledore still manages to find him the odd fishing expedition. ‘Another dead end,’ he admits. ‘There’s magic here alright, but nothing Voldemort would’ve been interested in.’

‘You surprise me,’ says Sirius. ‘I thought all the Dark Wizards were out wandering around old ruins, chatting with the ghosts, maybe hoping to pick up a Finwife.’

‘Well, Dumbledore reckons he would’ve wanted significant objects to use as Horcruxes. I haven’t found anything associated with Morgause, but if anything of hers still existed, he’d be sure to want it. Her father was a Muggle too, and she grew up without him.’ Remus doubts he’s saying anything Sirius doesn’t already know, but maybe going over it again might show him something he’s missed.

‘And Morgause was Queen of Orkney, yeah,’ says Sirius. ‘But here? It’s not much more than a skerry. The Mainland would make more sense. Or Hildaland, since Muggles can’t even see it.’

Remus shuffles some of the papers on the table, and hands one to Sirius. It’s a page from a Muggle tourist guide, explaining that Eynhallow had been uninhabited since the middle of the 19th Century, when the island was evacuated. A handful of crofters fled an outbreak of disease. Typhoid, the guide speculates, caused by a midden polluting the well.

‘It could have been Dark Magic?’ asks Sirius.

‘Possibly. A powerful enough Dark Object might have been able to infect the water,’ says Remus. ‘I took a good look at the well but there was no trace of Dark Magic. Those poor Muggles probably really did get sick from drinking their own toilet water.’

He smiles weakly; it’s not much of a joke, but Sirius seems deep in thought. ‘None there now. Doesn’t mean there never was.’

Remus tilts his head, interested. He recognises the signs that Sirius’ brain is in overdrive, and there’s every chance he’s about to come out with something extraordinary. ‘What do you mean?’

‘The Lights. The Borealis,’ says Sirius. ‘If there were Dark Magic here, I think they might have cleansed it. You can feel them, can’t you? They feel… good.’

‘Maybe,’ says Remus. He hadn’t realised the Borealis affected Sirius so strongly. ‘There’s a lot of magic in them, but it’s just wild, isn’t it? Chaotic. There’s no consciousness to them, so I don’t think they can be good or bad.’

‘You sure about that?’ says Sirius. ‘The Muggles have all sorts of theories about the Northern Lights, and for once it’s not just because wizards are hiding something. We don’t know much about them either.’

It’s a fair point, and from a literal perspective it makes a certain amount of sense - light driving out the darkness. But the lights have struck up a storm that has left them stranded and could’ve killed unwary Muggle travellers. 

‘They’re powerful, but I can’t say I’ve ever felt safe with the Lights,’ he says.

‘Because of the dreams?’ asks Sirius, taking Remus’ answering nod for granted. ‘I know you don’t like them much, but have they been unhelpful? Even a bad dream can be a warning.’

It seems like a good opportunity for Remus to make a careful study of his knees, the better to avoid confronting the contents of his most recent dreams about Sirius. ‘Easy for you to say,’ he mutters. ‘You don’t have them.’

‘That’s just where you’re wrong,’ says Sirius. ‘I didn’t have them. Until now.’

With a flourish, he presents an old biscuit tin that he’d been hiding on the far side of the sofa, and places it on the coffee table. A thin silver liquid swirls inside. Remus sighs heavily.

‘Padfoot, you cannot use a biscuit tin as an impromptu Pensieve.’

The exuberant grin that splits Sirius’ face reminds Remus so sharply of their school days, he half-expects him to say something like, “I absolutely can and I’ll get away with it too.”

What he actually says is, ‘After you,’ as he pitches Remus head-first into the battered silver puddle of memory.

Remus falls into a cloud of colour, like he’s dropped directly into the Borealis. He’s used a Pensieve precisely once before, to review one of his own memories for Order business, but it was nothing like this. Most likely because it’s a memory of a dream, rather than a real event, though he wouldn’t put it past Sirius to have found a way to make his own memories a bit flashier than anyone else’s.

A slight push from Sirius makes him step forward, swallowing the gulp of panic about what Sirius’ dream might contain. Sirius is there, of course, and Remus is with him. It’s such a relief that Remus feels like cheering. They’re in an unfamiliar living room, though Remus recognises the overstuffed leather sofa, and the Gryffindor-red rug. Despite never having seen the place before, Remus knows at once that he lives here. Some future version of himself, at any rate, in Sirius’ vision of things to come.

That Remus is sitting in the seat of a huge bay window, tapping at a Sneakoscope with his wand. Sirius lounges beside him, taking up more than his fair share of the seat and scratching on a folded up Daily Prophet with his quill. Presumably he’s doing the crossword, though you can never be sure what Sirius might be plotting.

Before Remus can think of investigating further, there’s a tug on his sleeve and Sirius pulls him back out of the memory, out of the biscuit tin, and into the front room of the little bothy.

‘You see?’ Sirius stares at him expectantly, and Remus really doesn’t feel up to the challenge. The cosy domesticity he’s just witnessed isn’t something he ever imagined he could have with Sirius. Before he can get too used to the idea he kicks himself internally, and reminds himself that he shouldn’t let himself get too comfortable with Sirius.

‘I did.’ He raises his eyebrows. ‘I had no idea your dreams would be so utterly mundane. Really, Padfoot, crossword puzzles? I was expecting at least a small explosion.’

‘It wasn’t boring,’ says Sirius. ‘We were together.’

He looks so earnest, a rare enough sight to knock Remus off-guard. In spite of everything, he softens. ‘Can’t say I’ve ever been bored around you,’ he admits.

‘Never,’ says Sirius proudly.

‘Not bored, no. Frustrated at times, and sometimes upset. Frequently infuriated and occasionally terrified.’

‘Shut up.’

‘You shut up,’ says Remus on reflex. He glances up at the ceiling, blotted with damp patches and warm with blush lights from the Borealis. ‘So, what are you driving at here?’

‘Don’t be obtuse, it doesn’t suit you.’ Sirius turns so that he’s facing Remus directly, their knees jammed into an awkward right-angle. The old settee feels smaller, warmer. ‘You know fine well what’s happening here.’

Remus sighs, recognising at last the familiar sense of his own inevitable surrender to Sirius’ whims. He ought to put up some token resistance at least, for old time’s sake. His decision not to push his luck, to keep things with Sirius strictly platonic and avoid the inevitable crash and burn of their relationship had been a sensible one after all.

‘What’s happening here is that, having failed to get your own way by ordinary means, you’re getting desperate,’ he says, addressing the comment directly to Sirius’ left eyebrow. ‘Really, Padfoot, your dreams think we are going to get back together? Sorry, but I don’t take relationship advice from whatever mystic messengers of the gods are telling you the universe wants you to get into my pants.’

‘Stop making it just about sex,’ says Sirius. ‘I bet all your dreams were about fucking, weren’t they?’

Remus just snorts.

‘Nevermind what the universe does or doesn’t want us to do, what do you want?’ says Sirius. It’s Remus’ chance to tell Sirius again that he wants to maintain their friendship, for Sirius to listen to him and respect Remus’ decision. He can’t quite trust himself with any of it right now, though, so he remains silent, allowing Sirius to plough on.

‘I know you’re scared, Moony,’ he says, more quietly now, but still firm. ‘And I know I haven’t been very nice about it, and maybe you do have a point about having more to lose than me if things don’t work out. But I know the future I want is with you. I think that’s what you want too.’

It’s deeply unfair for Sirius to turn reasonable; casting him as self-centred and childish has been Remus’ primary line of defence for months now. He’s reminded of the first time he realised James was growing up, back in Sixth Year when he was doing his Prefectly duty trying to comfort one of the younger girls who was in a tizz because some other girls hadn’t included her in their group. Remus had roped James in, hoping that a bit of attention from a Quidditch Captain would make her look cool enough for the other girls to let her join them. James had surprised him by offering very pragmatic advice, including something that Remus found hard to swallow: you can’t make someone be friends with you.

‘We’re never going to be friends, are we?’ asks Remus. It’s not meant to be a reproach this time, there’s no _because that’s not good enough for you._

‘Don’t be daft, Moony, you’re not getting rid of me that easily,’ says Sirius. ‘We are friends, just not in the way you keep trying to pretend. All cautious and mannered and polite, that’s not us, Moony, it never was. I’m not going to collaborate in some ersatz simulation of our relationship, and I don’t think you should have to make do with that either.’

Dusk is falling, darkening the room, and the mercury puddle of Sirius’ biscuit tin of memory glows softly, casting a cool silvery light. The day’s at an end and so, it seems, is Remus’ campaign of resistance. Perhaps eventually he might have convinced himself that he didn’t love Sirius, that stable comradeship was what he really wanted, but he should’ve known Sirius was too stubborn for that.

Perhaps Sirius is right not to settle. There’s so many possible futures ahead of them, and Remus never was much good at figuring out the route to one or another. Beside him, Sirius sits in silence, fingers drumming his knee as he tries to wait patiently for an answer.

‘I really hate it when you’re right,’ admits Remus at last.

Sirius smiles, his whole face lighting up. It’s offensively attractive. ‘You should be used to it by now.’

It’s warmly familiar, how Sirius crows and Remus tells him to shut it and Sirius says “make me” until Remus kisses him or possibly sticks his hand down his trousers. They’ve danced to this tune so many times before and now, at last, Remus thinks he might be ready to do it again.

‘You are such a knob,’ he tells Sirius, before leaning forward and kissing him.

But Sirius doesn’t kiss back; he’s still and cool against Remus’ lips and then he pulls back.

‘What?’ asks Remus, perplexed.

‘I’m not a _cheater_ , Moony.’

It’s the affronted tone, and the sanctimony that lies beneath it that makes Remus boil over. He’s on his feet and shouting before he even has time to remember that he’d promised himself he wasn’t going to let Sirius get to him like this anymore.

‘You arrogant fucking prick! This is all just a big game to you, isn’t it? Another boost to your already over-inflated ego.’

‘It is not,’ says Sirius, still with that air of moral indignation, like he isn’t the one fucking around with other people’s feelings. Stupid self-centred self-righteous stuck up upper class twit that he is.

‘Right, sure.’ Remus speaks through his teeth, seething. ‘You just come up here and flirt and act like you’re all heartbroken and the minute, the very second I show any interest, you back off. Fucking dog in the manger, that’s what you are. You don’t really want me, you just don’t want me to get over you.’

He turns on his heel and makes for the stairs, but Sirius grabs hold of his arm to stop him. Remus looks back and snarls, ‘get off me.’

‘No,’ says Sirius. ‘And no storming off in a huff, you even try and I’ll transform and bite you.’

‘You are such an arrogant piece of shit, I can’t believe I even considered getting back together with you.’

‘Moony, will you just stop and listen to me?’ Sirius looks exasperated. ‘I’m not trying to mess you about. I meant everything I said about us.’

Remus shrinks back, the heat of his anger fading into the dull burn of humiliation. ‘Then why?’

‘I just… you shouldn’t be my bit on the side.’

Remus laughs, hollow and mirthless. Of course Sirius would say he’d humiliated Remus for his own benefit.

‘I do want to be with you, I always have. You know that,’ says Sirius. ‘I didn’t expect things to work out like this.’

That’s about as close to an apology as Sirius ever goes, as close to one as Remus is every likely to get. ‘And what did you expect?’ he asks.

‘I didn’t expect you to give in so easily,’ says Sirius, with a rough sort of smile.

‘I really hate you sometimes,’ says Remus. He feels exhausted, and probably sounds it.

‘Yeah, I know,’ says Sirius. ‘Shall we open the wine?’

#

Two bottles of something that probably cost about as much as Remus earns in a year later, things actually do seem a bit more normal. Sirius is more relaxed, and the tension that radiates from him, like cracks in ice, is gone. Getting his own way seems to have that effect on him. Remus feels it too - from the wine, or the fading storms, or maybe it’s because he’s not fighting the inevitable anymore.

‘Reckon we’ll be able to push off tomorrow,’ says Sirius, craning his neck to look out of the window. ‘Good thing too, I’ve got a job interview Tuesday.’

‘Who the fuck would want to employ you?’ asks Remus. ‘And since when were you looking for a job anyway? I thought you were dedicated to the leisurely life of a disconsolate disgraced aristocrat.’

Sirius shrugs. ‘Tried it. Got bored,’ he says. ‘I suppose I should do something. We survived. Won the war. I never really expected that. Even little Harry’s growing every day. I reckon, maybe it doesn’t hurt to think about the future a bit.’

‘Maybe,’ Remus wonders. For all his much vaunted good sense, he generally prefers not to think too far ahead. He’s not been used to having things to look forward to. ‘What job have you applied for anyway?’

‘Junior Bullshitter on the Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee,’ says Sirius. ‘I know I always said “fuck the Ministry” but the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes does seem like my sort of place.’

‘Thank fuck for that,’ says Remus, pouring another generous quanitity of wine into Sirius’ glass. ‘For a moment there I thought turned sensible or something equally out of character. Let’s toast to you making a living from talking bollocks.’

Sirius raises his glass but doesn’t drink. ‘You trying to get me drunk, Moony?’

‘Of course,’ says Remus. ‘It’s not as easy as it looks: I want enough wine in you to get you into bed, but not so much you’ll be no fun when you get there.’

‘That’s very underhanded of you.’

‘Thank you, I thought so,’ says Remus. ‘I suppose you’d like me to challenge Florean to a duel, since you’ve decided to be a stubborn git who won’t be seduced at an appropriate moment.’

Sirius laughs, an undignified snort into his wine. Quite possibly he really would get off on having men fight over him, not that he’s likely to admit it. Instead he just throws Remus a sly smile, ‘You wouldn’t really steal someone else’s boyfriend.’ 

‘You were my boyfriend first,’ says Remus, with a pout that is only sort of a joke. 

Sirius stretches and yawns. He really is a lightweight. ‘First doesn’t matter,’ he says. ‘Better to come last.’

It sounds like the set up to a sex joke, but somehow Remus isn’t quite in the mood. The room is dark, lit only by the crackling fire now the dancing lights have retired from the sky and Sirius’ thoughts are back in his head were they belong. Remus lets himself fall into Sirius, head resting on Sirius’ shoulder, not minding too much the rumbling snores already coming from him.

‘Missed you so much,’ he whispers, not quite bold enough to say it aloud but getting there. Wine and exhaustion soon pull him to sleep, awkward with his feet on the coffee table and his body draped across Sirius’ chest. He doesn’t dream.


End file.
